Blue with Painted Starships
by dr pepper upper
Summary: He sways you to the beat of the song and it registers in your mind that you are dancing on your father’s grave, and then you laugh because he’s probably getting a kick out of it up there in Heaven.


**Title**: Blue with Painted Starships

**Author**: drpepperupper

**Series & Pairin**g: Star Trek xi, Leonard McCoy/Jocelyn McCoy, McCoy/Kirk

**Rating**: Er... pg-13, I guess.

**Warnings**: Swearing, mostly.

**Notes**: I… Have no idea where this came from, but I liked writing it. I'm not experienced with second person, but I wanted to give it a shot. It might suck, it might not. I don't really know, so I'll let you be the judge of that one.

* * *

Your first taste of freedom is as bitter as it is sweet. You're seven years old, according to the date on the holovid that your mother recorded. She stands to the left of you, your father, and your _very first_ bike. It's blue with little painted starships on it that you name. You inspect each starship carefully and make up stories about each one, much to your parents' delight. Looking back now, it's painful to watch. It's hard to believe you were so damn _imaginative_ when you were young.

Your father just laughs and helps you onto the bike. He's smiling, but he looks so _fragile_ already. If you were older, you'd have realized it, but it's your birthday and you're so excited about the bike that you can't possibly think about other people. It's okay. It _is_ your birthday, after all.

Your father patiently explains the different parts of the bike and how to use them. He uses his 'doctor voice' to make sure you're listening, the voice that is calm and quiet but demands your attention anyway. If it were any day but your birthday, and if you had anything but a bike under you, you would have listened. But you don't.

"You ready, Len?" He asks, sounding just as excited as you are and you nod and he carefully pushes you towards the little hill. To you, it looks like a mountain and you can't help but swallow loudly. You stop the bike and turn back to look at your dad, dark eyes wide and scared.

"I don't think I can…" You begin, but he's having none of it. He walks in front of the bike and kneels down; placing his hands on the handlebars and stares you in the eyes.

"You can do it." He sounds so sure, so confident… You don't want to let him down.

"But, dad…"

"Leonard McCoy, you listen to me. You never back down from a challenge, no matter how scary it is. You're such a brave boy… You deal with the horses every day, don't you?" You nod meekly, but you feel a bit of his confidence bleed into you, decorating your face with a smile and making you puff out your chest in a burst of pride.

"Yeah, I do!"

"And a bike isn't as big as a horse, is it?"

" 'Course not, daddy."

"Right! It's easier to control than a horse, right?"

"Yeah!"

"Then you can do this." Without further delay, he moves away from the bike and you push off, wobbling a bit before you get going down the small hill.

The wind in your hair is something you've felt before, but it has never felt like _this_. There's a feeling of pure freedom in the moments you race down the hill. You shriek with the laughter only a child can produce, so completely happy and carefree. You can hear your mother behind you, standing with your father, calling, "Be careful, Len!" You can hear your dad whistling and clapping and laughing along with you.

You near the end of the hill and suddenly it hits you. _You don't remember how to stop_. Is it _this_ break, or_ this_ one? Which was the one dad said not to press? Which was the one that would send you flying? The laughter has died on your tongue, gone six feet under and is writhing with the irony. Your father is shouting to you but you can't hear him over the blood rushing in your ears.

In the end, you needn't have worried about the brakes. It takes one horribly misplaced rock to bring you crashing down. The front tire of your bike just hits the offending piece of solidified mineral at the wrong angle and suddenly your beloved bike slides from under you and you're tumbling, rolling, the dust clogging your throat and choking you with innocent betrayal. All you see around you is red; probably the dust from the red dirt road, but it feels a lot like blood.

The first taste of freedom ends with your father yelling frantically in your ear and your mother cradling you to her chest. You don't remember anything about that day because your head was hit so hard on the ground that you blacked out and you've never regained that memory.

Freedom is still a bitter taste in your mouth, especially when you watch the holovid of that seventh birthday. You can see the blazing happiness on your face, the childish delight over the bike and your heart pangs and you feel like screaming at the vid. It was the one time you were so truly happy that nothing else mattered and you _can't remember it._

That bike was never touched again, the starships and lives made up in them buried under that red dust on the side of the road.

* * *

Your first taste of _real_ pain is awful. There is no memory loss this time.

It's a trip you and your parents make so many times, just going to Grandma and Grandpa's house for Christmas. You bounce in your seat, excited both for the shuttle ride and seeing your grandparents. You love them and you love their house. You especially love Grandma's cookies. You love waking up on Christmas day to see your parents dancing around the Christmas tree, kissing occasionally. They are the picture of happiness.

This time, though, it isn't meant to be.

You board the shuttle and strap yourself in, refusing to be helped. "Dad, I _know_ how to do it!" You're a big boy now and that's hard for your dad to grasp, apparently. He looks uneasy but your mom looks completely relaxed, chuckling at you and shaking her pretty, dark head. The shuttle takes off and you're too busy thinking about presents and hot chocolate to notice that something is terribly wrong before it happens.

It's the sound that gets your attention. There's a terrible crash and you jolt against your harness. Metal scrapes against metal and one side of the shuttle caves in as the rest of the thing begins to spiral out of control. Everyone is screaming; everyone that is not already dead, anyway. You'll later learn that another shuttle careened into yours as yours was landing. It's a freak accident but it costs one life that means the world to you.

It happens faster than you can blink, but you feel the searing, blinding _pain. _Metal slices into your soft skin and bones crunch upon impact with the ground. The last thing you see is your mother, throwing herself on you, shielding you and protecting you from the world just like she always said she would.

You wake up God knows how much later and you're in a hospital room. Your father is beside you in another biobed, asleep with his face impassive. Your Grandma is beside you, clutching your weak, pale hand as tears slip down from her liquid blue eyes, shining like the ocean on a sunny day. There is nothing sunny in her eyes; they're cold and full of pain.

You don't even have to ask. You _know._

That doesn't stop the howling cries that are torn from your bruised and battered throat, crying, "Mama! Mama," for the whole world to hear. If they listen close enough, they can hear a second cry, an echo.

That's your heart.

It is shattered, just like your legs.

* * *

Even as a young, naïve child, you're convinced you will never believe in love at first sight.

Hell, after your mother died, you hardly even believe that love is something that is true and will last. Yes, your father loves you, but he's getting sicker and sicker by the year and you know if you don't do something soon, you'll lose him just like you lost your mom. That's not something you can handle.

You're eighteen now and you've pushed yourself so hard that you could be working on getting your medical degree now. You were smart before, but since your mom died and left you broken, you've done all you can to put the pieces back together. You're going to be a doctor, damn it, and you're going to be a _great_ one.

You couldn't save mom, but you can save other people. It'll be enough, it _has_ to be. If it isn't… You don't know what you're going to do. Your heart is in pieces and even though you _know_ you were only ten when it happened and that there was nothing you could have done, you can't help but blame yourself. After all, she died protecting _you._

You're going to save a lot of people when you become a doctor. You _have_ to. For her.

But it's that fateful day, October 4th, when your plans get turned upside down. You're late for a class, you're careening down the hall and pushing your legs faster, _faster_, because you have a test and you _cannot_ miss it.

That's dashed to hell when you run around a corner and smack into someone. Your momentum sends them flying and you're horrified because it's a _girl_ you've managed to hit. "Oh, Jesus! I'm sorry!" You're twitching both towards her and towards the hall, to your class, but you're too much of a Southern gentleman to just leave her there. Her books and papers are strewn _everywhere_. You stoop down and gather them up for her. She's swearing up a storm and you stop in front of her to hear the tail end of it.

"… little motherfucker!" You can't help but chuckle a little. You sober when she turns her intense green eyes on you, giving you a patented death glare that you're convinced women have programmed into their genes.

"Well, I've never met your mother, but I'm sure she's just lovely." You say this with an amazingly straight face and for a moment she doesn't get it. Her pretty face breaks into a smile and she shakes her head, trying desperately not to laugh.

"Asshole." She whacks you hard on the head with her notebooks and it hurts, but you don't care. You're just thinking, _oh my God, I love her,_ and the funny thing is that you _do_.

* * *

You cry when you first see your baby girl. She's so tiny and beautiful that, even though your coworkers are looking at you like you're crazy, you don't care. You just fall to your knees beside Jocelyn's bed and break down. You don't know _why_ you're doing it, but you're out of your own control.

Jocelyn just puts her hand on your head and while that would normally soothe you, it doesn't. It just makes you cry harder. _"Mama! Mama!"_ Joanna. Joanna has her eyes, _your own_ eyes. You look at your baby girl and you see your mother already and it's enough to buckle your knees and bring you down. Jocelyn doesn't understand. "You should be happy," she's busy saying and she's frowning. She doesn't realize that you _are_ happy.

But your daddy is dying just one room over and she still doesn't understand. It's a life for a life.

Daddy doesn't have long to live.

Joanna's life is just starting.

You cry harder.

Jocelyn frowns.

The bike is starting the rapid descent down the hill.

* * *

"Len, it hurts…"

"I know, daddy. I know."

"Len…"

"You can do it, dad. You're strong enough. Please, just hold on… Just a bit more. I'm so close, I'm so close…"

"Len, I'm tired."

"I know. I know. Please, stay with me. Hold on. _Please_, daddy."

"Len, I don't want to live anymore."

"Don't you say that, David McCoy. Don't you say that to me!"

"Len, I'm in so much _pain_."

"Dad… Dad, don't ask me to do it. Dad, just… Wait for me, dad. I can do it. I _can_. I'm _so_ close. The cure is _right_ there. I know it."

"Len…"

"I_ can_ save you, dad. I _will_!"

"Len, I'm so proud of you."

"No! No, don't you say that to me. I haven't _done_ anything!"

"Len. Do it."

"N-no… Daddy, please, _no_. Don't ask me to do this. Don't ask me to kill my dad."

"I love you, kiddo. So proud of you…"

"P-_please_. I… I _can't_…"

"You never back down from a challenge, Leonard McCoy, no matter how scary it is."

"Dad…"

"Such a brave boy… Such a beautiful, brave boy…"

"This isn't like riding a goddamn horse, dad! This isn't like riding the bike!"

"_Please_, Len. I want to die."

"I…"

"I want to see her again. I miss her so much, Len…"

"I couldn't save her, dad! I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm _sorry._"

"Oh, Leonard…"

"I… I'm sorry I couldn't save _you_, dad. I'm sorry. I…"

"Thank you… Thank you…"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, dad. It's almost over. Just… Just a few more minutes, daddy. Just… Yeah, hold my hand…"

"Love you, Len."

"L-love you too, dad. Tell…Tell mom I love her, will you?"

"Sure, kiddo. Anything…"

"Dad? _Dad_? Oh… Oh, dad. I'm s-sorry. I'm…. So, so fucking sorry…"

* * *

Your back is turned on the house you've known as home for years. Your back is turned on the woman you've loved since you were eighteen. Your back is turned on your little girl, who is crying out for you in her mother's arms.

But you're sure as hell not leaving because you want to. You turn back once more to look, to plead with Jocelyn once more. When you look, though, her back is turned on you but Joanna is still looking at you with tear-filled eyes. It's so cold outside… Your own tears freeze in your eyes and make the stinging so much worse.

You open your arms tentatively to your daughter and she wastes no time in yanking away from her mother to bolt into you, sobbing. "I d-don't want you to go, d-d-daddy," she wails as she holds onto him with all the strength she has. She's six… She shouldn't have to go through this.

You kneel down and hug her closer, ignoring Jocelyn's protests. "I don't want to go either, baby girl," you whisper into her ear and crush her closer. Your tears drop as icicles onto her pretty little head and she's so goddamned _fragile_.

"Daddy, don't go…"

"Your mom wants me to leave, honey." You push her away, holding her at arm's length and look straight into her eyes. "But you listen to me, Joanna McCoy. I. Love. You. So, so much. I'll come whenever I can, whenever your mom will let me. You just ask her if you want me to come around, okay? Don't you hesitate to call me, baby. Never hesitate."

And then Jocelyn yanks Jo into her arms and walks briskly back into the house, not saying a word to you, even as your daughter cries out for her father.

Jocelyn didn't understand why you did what you did for your father. She says you're a murderer. You say he wanted it. She doesn't know how hard you cried, she doesn't know how much you wanted him to just hold on. He didn't want to, though… In the end, you had to let your father go.

She can't understand that.

The bike hits the rock and shit hits the fan. It's all you can do to wait until you get into your hotel room to break down.

* * *

Hope is a bitter taste for you, after all these years.

Because of your mother, you _hate_ shuttles. You hate space. You have everything that has to do with flying.

So, it's kind of weird when your savior comes in the form of a Starfleet captain coming to recruit a brilliant doctor for the 'Fleet. You don't hesitate, but you're drunk. He holds you to your word, though and makes sure you get on that shuttle.

He never says anything about not hiding in the bathroom until it's over, though. That's _exactly_ what you plan to do, because you don't think you can handle being in a shuttle. You know you're just going to see her face, see her eyes and see her protecting you again. You don't know if you can deal with it. You feel sick enough as it is just sitting in the bathroom.

But you're drunk. That might have something to do with it.

Your plan goes to hell, however, when the flight attendant finds your hiding place (not a very original hiding place, unfortunately) and drags you back into the main part of the shuttle. You're scared shitless as you look around and insist that you _don't_ need a doctor (you _are_ a fucking doctor, after all, even if you're one seriously messed up doctor) and you feel so sick that you're sure you're going to throw up on the unlucky person you're going to have to sit next to.

You cannot believe you're going to do this.

_Stupid Captain Pike._ _Stupid Starfleet. Stupid shuttles. Stupid aviophobia._

"I may throw up on you."

It's not an empty threat, that's for sure. You can't think of anything else to say to this poor bastard that's sitting next to you, so you just spout out some really unhelpful bits of information about solar flares, Andorian shingles and bleeding eyeballs. The kid you're talking to looks either amused or freaked out.

It could be a mixture of both.

"Yeah, well, got nowhere else to go. Ex-wife took the whole damn _planet_ in the divorce. All I got left is m'bones."

He keeps you talking, though, throughout all of it. You still hear the metal crunching, you still feel your legs shattering and you still see your mother right in front of you the whole goddamn time, but this Jim Kirk fellow kind of balances it. At least, you don't make good on your threat of throwing up on the poor kid.

When it's all over and your heart rate slows just the littlest bit, you turn to thank the kid, but he just grins easily, his Georgia blue eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement and he claps you on the shoulder. _Hard_.

"See you around, Bones."

You don't even bother questioning the strange name. You decide you don't even _want_ to know. You're drunk, anyway. You can't be bothered with a kid like him.

* * *

You're only on your second week at the Academy and you're ready to go back home. You're lost, you're confused and you don't know what the _hell_ you're doing. You're a _doctor._ With _aviophobia._ What the_ hell?_

You're too busy shaking your head at yourself that you don't even notice the body running towards you until you make impact with it and sprawl on the ground. Your notebooks and paper fly everywhere and you're cursing before you even hit the ground. The person who bumped into you is scrambling beside you but you're too busy being a grumpy bastard to look and see who it is.

All your notes are messed up and this is just _not_ your day. "Motherfucker!" It's not very gentlemanly to say such a word, but you're reminded of the way you and Jocelyn met and it seems appropriate.

"_You're_ her son?" Jim-Georgia-sky-blue-eyes-Kirk. Of _course_ it's him. You can't help but crack a grin at the joke and whack him with your notes.

"Asshole."

You might just be a little bit in love.

* * *

Your savior isn't Christopher Pike after all.

Your fucking savior is in the bright-eyed, child-at-heart, knows-no-boundaries, Georgia-blue-sky-eyes Jim Kirk.

You don't really know when it happened. It might be between the first time the kid walks into your room unannounced, having hacked into the system to get your room code or the first time you catch him using your toothbrush.

It might happen when Jim starts coming to you for all his injuries. It might happen when you realize that Jim put you as his emergency contact. It might be when you put him as your emergency contact. It might be the time that Jim comes to meet Joanna for the first time since the divorce.

Whenever it happens, you don't really know what to do. The kid is your best friend, he's the one that pulls you out from your drunken stupor and gets you going, gets you focused. He takes you out drinking after a long day at work. He sits with you when you lose a patient. He hugs you when you have to cry. He pokes at you until you laugh.

And the strange thing is, you do the same for him.

But sometimes he gets too much. It's been a bad day for you both, but he's pushing and pushing and he _says_ something, something about your dad that you're sure he never meant to say. He's so aggravated that he probably just let it slip, but it's enough to bring you crashing down even as you stand completely still. Those blue eyes widen and before he can say anything, before he can step forward, you're running out the door. You're really, honest-to-God bolting out of the dorm and sprinting across the campus, desperate to get away.

It's raining and the ground is wet and slippery, so when he catches up with you and tackles you, it's not surprising that both of your clothes are ruined. It's a fist fight for all of two seconds (but you _do_ get a nice, solid hit on his jaw) until he's just holding you and letting you shake against him, to angry and upset to say anything to him, but glad to have him near.

Your savior is in this kid, this kid that just ran after you to take you down in the middle of campus and keep you there, where anyone can see you. He doesn't care because he has no shame. Your savior is in this asshole, this thoughtful, caring, arrogant, annoying puppy of a human being.

You've never loved him more in your life.

* * *

He comes with you back to Georgia in the summer without really being invited. He just knows it'll be okay for him to tag along. Since when have you ever said no to the kid before?

It's relaxing. You and Jim are in your old home, the one that your parents used to live in. Jim amuses himself by looking at the pictures and holovids, including the one on your seventh birthday with the spaceship-painted bike. There's an odd little smile on his face as he watches you beam and make up names and stories for each of the ships. You don't know what he's thinking, nor do you really _want_ to know.

What goes on in Jim Kirk's head would be better to _stay_ in Jim Kirk's head. This time, he doesn't comment even though he usually would and just goes to bed earlier than usual that night.

You can't sleep.

It's the one-year anniversary of your dad's death. It's the one-year anniversary of the day your life went to hell. Of course, that's a year of being saved by Jim as well, but he can't save you from this. He can't stop the guilt.

You don't even know where you're going. You're putting on shoes and walking out the door before you realize you're actually going somewhere. It's like someone else is controlling you, because your fuzzy brain can't even begin to compute what you're doing. Jim is going to kill you, you know that, but you're still moving and apparently, your feet know where they're going, but _you_ don't.

You stop when your feet hit something solid. You look down and immediately fall to your knees.

_David McCoy: Loving husband, son, and father. _

You don't know why, but suddenly you feel like talking.

Only, it doesn't come out as talking. It comes out as "Fuck you, you bastard," and you're sobbing because you haven't let yourself do this in such a long time. You're not sure why you're doing this, but it feels good and you can't stop yourself. "I hate you, I hate you!" You're repeating yourself, ranting on about how killing him tore your marriage, your life apart. You yell at an impassive stone and a skeleton buried beneath the ground you're sitting on. "You could have held on, just a few more months. I found it, you asshole. I found the fucking cure! You could have _lived_!"

You don't know exactly when 'fuck you' turns into 'thank you' or when the 'I hate you's turn into 'I love you's. You certainly don't remember when the crying turns into laughing and when you start talking about Jim instead of your fucked up life. You don't know how long you go on, but you do notice when you hear a motor approaching and you hear Jim calling your name as he nears.

He looks pissed, but when he sees where you are and what stone you're sitting in front of, he shuts himself up and gets off of his bike, leaving the motor (and radio) running. He walks slowly over to you and makes to get down, but you get up and just smile at him. If a jaw could _actually_ drop off of a human's skull, you're sure his would have.

"I'm okay. I'm okay." You don't even think, you just put your arms around Jim and hug him, saying 'thank you' over and over again until Jim is shaking, either with laughter or tears. You can't tell. The radio on his bike plays a softer song and you feel him pull you closer, rearranging your hands on him. You let him because you don't care. His eyes are bright and he's not smiling, but he's close to it. He sways you to the beat of the song and it registers in your mind that you are _dancing_ on your father's _grave_, and then you laugh because he's probably getting a kick out of it up there in Heaven.

Your mantra of 'thank you' never ebbs and he just keeps dancing with you until you both collapse against David McCoy's grave and fall asleep.

* * *

You and Jim are lying on your backs near the barn, looking up at the clear blue skies. Jim loves it in Georgia, he's said as much about a hundred times. He does look right at home, you decide as you just look at him.

He's on his side near you; toying a little with the broken, beat up little bicycle they've just stumbled across. It used to be blue, you know that and Jim knows that. It is pretty damn rusted by now and it doesn't work anymore (of _course_ Jim had to test the thing and almost break his neck in the process), and you can barely see some of the starships you were so enthusiastic about when you were so young.

"Do you remember the stories you made up?" The question is sudden and you have to think for a while. You vaguely repeat some of the little snippets of life aboard one of the painted ships, pointing them out (much to Jim's childlike delight) and trying to go into more detail than before.

You get to the last one you can see and pause. "This one is special," you declare with a nod. Jim's eyebrow raises, a trick he's learned from you.

"Oh really, Bones?"

"Mmhmm…"

"What makes you say that, old man? Has it got a story?" You pause again, and nod slowly.

"Yeah. This one's got a crazy-ass captain, see. Always getting himself into trouble and never seeing a doctor afterwards. He's got a million and one allergies." You watch Jim light up a little and grin at you.

"Oh, _really_?"

"Mmmhmm. Even though he's crazy, he's got a crew that loves him. They'll go anywhere he goes and they'll listen to him, 'cause he's a damn good captain."

A mischievous grin spreads over Jim's face and his eyes twinkle. "Oh, he is, is he?" You nod sagely.

"Well, the crew is crazy too. Especially the CMO. He hates space, but he's up there for his captain, that crazy bastard. He'll probably die a horrible, horrible death in space just like he always knew he would. He doesn't have aviophobia for nothin'." You tap your chin thoughtfully a moment more. "But he's damn proud of his captain, 'cause there ain't no one better than Captain James T. Kirk. Oh, that's got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Jim practically pounces on you, and you suppose you should be surprised but you're really not. He's kind of predictable, after all. "You really think so?" His breath ghosts over your lips and you just smirk at him.

"Jesus, kid. And _you're _supposed to be the genius?"

Well. That settles _that._ Jim's eyes are as blue as the Georgia sky above you and his smile burns brighter than the sun that is gently warming the both of you. His lips are softer than the grass you're lying in and he feels lighter than the clouds look. He tastes like peaches and sweet tea. It's all Jim and it's perfect because he's everything you've ever loved.

The blazing happiness you felt on your seventh birthday is back and this time there's no _way_ you're forgetting _this_.


End file.
